


The Mystery of the Girl with No Face

by Canon_Is_Relative



Series: In Spite of All The Danger [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Drug Use, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Book One in the "In Spite of All The Danger" 'verse</p><p>It's winter once more, nearly eight months since The Moriarty Incident, as John calls it, and going on a year since John and Sherlock moved in together. The flat at 221b has become home. John continues to accompany Sherlock on cases. For John, the thought of a life without Sherlock is no thought at all; Sherlock, who has never before given thought to his own course among the infinite possibilities each new moment presents, is finding that sharing a life is not quite so simple as clearing a space in the fridge and going halves on rent.</p><p>What happens when the term "flat mate" is no longer adequate?</p><p>Spanning the course of two weeks, one empty syringe, a deleted blog entry, the first case John ever sees get to Sherlock, and several brain massages, "The Mystery of the Girl with No Face" tracks the deepening of Sherlock and John's relationship at the end of their first year together.</p><p>Part One :: John knows Sherlock's history of drug use. Well - he knows he has one. But he's never much thought about it, really. Never wondered what...or when...or why...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty Syringe

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks are owed to my betas, ImpishTubist and Dragonfly, and to thesmallhobbit for brit-picking.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://canonisrelative.livejournal.com/10965.html) at livejournal

_John is off gallivanting around London with some old mates from school or a new girlfriend or something._ Who _doesn’t matter; who will be obvious upon John's return to their flat._ Dull. _John has provided him with no stimulation today, no distraction. The need is upon him now and John, in his unmitigating stupidity, continues to be of no help. Ignorance ought be no excuse._ Spectacular ignorance. _But now John is gone, blessedly gone, and Sherlock sits in his armchair, the Union Jack pillow pressed up firm against his back, steepled fingers just resting against his lips as he surveys the players in his little drama lined up neatly along the edge of the coffee table. Nearly curtain call._

~~~

John returned to the flat hours earlier than he'd intended.

Just the other week as they were leaving a crime scene Sherlock had commented--his voice not quite dry enough to keep John from hearing the distinct note of honesty there--on the development of John's own powers of deduction.

Although never one to contradict the great Sherlock Holmes, John found himself wondering why, if that were the case, he kept getting himself into messes like this. Pubs and parties and pretty girls and war stories and surgery stories and Sherlock stories...

...lots of those, after their recent highly-publicized case that had taken them to the top of the Eye on Bonfire Night...all these stories. Only stories. Soldier. Surgeon. Sherlock's...colleague. Personas as natural as breathing that could make him forget that he was getting old, make him think, _Yeah, maybe I'll try again._

He thought he’d be off the hook on that tonight, just going round to the Stamfords’ to watch the rugby match. Mike stocked good brews and his wife Nancy was lovely and far more invested in the match than either of the men. He’d been looking forward to a quiet evening until he rang the bell and it was Elizabeth who answered.

John liked Mike’s sister, he really did. And not only was she perhaps even more stunningly gorgeous than when he was at Bart’s and pining after her, that dark-haired enigma known for weeks only as “Stumpy’s little sister” after she’d stopped in to see him one afternoon, but now after all these years she seemed to have taken a shine to him. Mike and Nancy had brought her along last time they went out to dinner with a smattering of Bart’s finest, past and present, and now her unannounced presence at Mike’s house had John’s fledgling powers of deduction telling him that something was on.

They also told him that he ought to like it. But the truth was--he realised whilst tucked into the velour sofa between Mike and Elizabeth, listening to Nancy shout at the commentator with their youngest daughter on her hip and not even an hour into game--that he didn’t. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t want to be there.

It wasn’t easy but he managed to extricate himself from the grasping paws of that smug scene of domesticity, make his well-worn excuses, and leave.

He caught sight of Elizabeth’s downturned profile as he shut the door. She really was lovely. But there was no future there. Nothing beyond a couple of drinks tonight that maybe worked up to a couple of shags per week before moving on. He set a brisk pace for Baker Street, wondering when it was that vision of a future stopped sounding like the answer to his prayers.

 _Might as well get on with it and accept it's going to be me and Sherlock, stuck with each other for the rest of our lives. Wonder if the wanker did the shopping like he said. Been out of tea for far too long._

Even if Sherlock had thought of the shopping there was no way he remembered to buy John’s gunpowder green. Anything the detective didn't consume himself was deleted from the shopping list behind his eyes. John aimed a small grin down at his feet as he trudged up the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock lay sprawled in John's armchair with his eyes closed, long hands folded over his heart, a look of quiet bliss on his face. John had pulled up short and blinked twice before his field of vision widened to include the array of paraphernalia on the table just in front of Sherlock's knobby knees. The empty syringe.

"Sherlock!" The sound was split into two sharp syllables, panic-cracked as John, half-out of his jacket, sprang to Sherlock's side, slapping his cheek twice before resting his palm against the detective (the _idiot_ )'s gaunt cheek and pulling back one eyelid with his thumb.

Sherlock made very little resistance or complaint at being handled, which frightened John. Touch was reserved for dangerous moments. Hauling each other out of harm's way or a steadying hand when exhaustion was starting to triumph over tea and nicotine patches, or careful fingers probing a wound or a bruise or a twisted ankle. Or this.

"John." Sherlock opened his other eye and rolled his head around to look up at him, his face alight with amusement. "My dear good fellow," he continued, his voice ponderous and thick with an accent not his own. Teasing. "What _are_ you doing?"

John slapped him harder. Meeting no resistance, Sherlock's head swung around once more, his chuckles muffled in the cushion of the headrest.

"What are _you_ doing?" John demanded, hands on his hips and glaring between Sherlock and the syringe.

"Cocaine," was the dreamy answer. John huffed an angry breath and looked away, eyes burning, anger flashing through him so fierce and unexpected he found himself shaking. "A small amount of heroin."

"A small amount of--God _dammit,_ Sherlock, are you _trying_ to go River Phoenix on me in the middle of my sitting room?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes up to look at John, confusion and merriment flickering across his face. "A river phoenix? You've no firm grasp on mythology, my friend."

" _River Phoenix._ You know--no. No, of course you don't. He was that actor, that kid. He OD'd on the same shit you've just shot up your arm. Right on the sidewalk, no warning, just...fucking _dead_."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he moved his head back centre to look up at John, laughter gone from his features, body held unnaturally still. His voice was clipped and hard-edged as usual when he opened his mouth again.

"What a remarkably asinine thing to say, even for you, John. You are perfectly aware that alcohol dulls your somewhat negligible wits and transforms you into even more of a blundering caveman than usual, and yet you stand here, in _our_ sitting room, stinking of it and implying that I, _I,_ am lacking in sufficient intelligence and control--"

"Control?" John barked, throwing his arms wide. "It's always about bloody _control_ with you. But you bloody well should know that you can't _control_ the drug once it's in you, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what--of course you do. Of course you do. Of course Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant chemist, knows exactly what's going on in his bloodstream right now. If you wanted to be in _control_ of yourself, you wouldn't be shooting up at all!"

He spun away from Sherlock, hands braced on the back of his head, staring blankly at the fireplace. "You poke fun at my limp for being 'all in my head.' Well I tell you that whatever you're feeling right now, whatever's so great about…about _that,_ it's all in your head, too. So don't call me an idiot whilst you're sitting there doing a pretty damn good impression of one yourself. All right?"

Sherlock continued to stare dispassionately at John until he'd run himself out, until he was standing in the middle of the rug and pushing trembling fingers through his cropped blond hair and staring at Sherlock like he had no idea who he was. Then, carefully, Sherlock pushed himself up and out of the chair, taking a few steps away to stand with his back to the mantelpiece, the skull peeking over his right shoulder. "Finished?"

John gave a soft snort, dropping his head to stare at his shoes. "Yes," he said. Then after a minute, lifting his eyes to Sherlock's, "No."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, levelling a look of such contempt at John that he faltered, wondering for a long moment why the bloody fuck he was even still here. He buried his hands in his pockets and realized he couldn't let it go.

"You," John started, not letting Sherlock win this staring contest. "You act like this is nothing to do with me."

"Bravo doctor, you have finally hit the mark. You're absolutely right; my business is none of yours."

"None of my..." John broke off on a breathy, angry laugh. "Oh ho, right. That's a laugh. You're only my flat mate. Only half the rent. Only my best mate and the only person I actually _talk_ to most days. Of course the fact that you're shooting up in the middle of the afternoon when you've been busted for possession before has _nothing to do with me._ Right. How could I have been so stupid? Must have been my _tiny, sub-par brain_ acting up again. If you're so desperate for something to do, go and solve something, for Chrissakes! Get a Rubik's cube! Get a dog, if you need someone about to abuse who's not going to object to your habits because they're _nothing to do with me._ "

Talking himself into what he could only pathetically describe as a frenzy, blinking away angry tears and the image of his friend slumped on the floor at his feet, John punctuated his closing remarks by grabbing the _Times_ off the sofa and sweeping the contents of the coffee table--syringe, velvet bag, rubber hose, silver spoon--into it, rolling it up and making for the door to the stairs, intent on binning the whole lot somewhere Sherlock wouldn't be able to retrieve it.

Long, cold fingers closed around his wrist and he would swear he could _hear_ his bones grinding together. As he struggled against him, John grappled once again with the realization that there was _nothing_ Sherlock Holmes couldn't do once he'd decided it was worth his efforts.

Forced to spin around, coming face to face with the fiend wearing his friend's face, John stopped fighting and focused only on not letting go of the parcel as Sherlock began to speak.

"John, you are not my mother, neither are you my lover, my doctor, or even, in any technical sense, my partner."

One by one Sherlock pried his fingers away and John didn't struggle any more as Sherlock reclaimed his precious phials and needles. He felt gooseflesh rise along the length of his spine and shivered as Sherlock's glacial stare took him in and dismissed him as worthless.

"You are not obligated, in other words, to care for or about me. If something were to happen to me that prevented my ability to pay the rent, Mycroft would ensure that you were compensated, as per the brotherly obligation he feels toward me. Now that that is settled…" Sherlock backed up a step, fingers caressing the newsprint cradled in his arms, "you will surely see that there is no need for fuss and kindly _allow_ me to carry on."

" _Fuck_ Mycroft!" The words exploded from John the moment Sherlock's eyes slid away from his. "And fuck _you_ and your crackpot ideas about caring and, and _obligation._ This isn't about that--"

"What, then?"

"That! You!" His wide gesture encompassed the bundle in Sherlock's arms and Sherlock himself. "That and you not going together!"

"Why."

It was all John could do not to stamp his foot and shake his finger. Feeling very much like his mother, he continued on, "Because I don't want it in my _home._ And I don't want it in _you._ What would I do if you-- You're too good for it, Sherlock, that's all. And you _don't need it._ "

Sherlock turned his back. Proud shoulders slumped as he gazed out the window, not speaking for a long time, long enough for John to start to cotton on that there was something more at work here, something he hadn't seen past his own shock and Sherlock's damn hard-headedness. "Humans have needs, John, it's hardwired to the human condition. As flattering as it is to know that you don't think of me as such--"

"As what, as human?"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, directing a small smile at John, some note of animation returning to his face. "No one else does. And wouldn't it be convenient if they were right?"

"Christ, Sherlock."

"No. Holmes, Sherlock." The smile grew a bit before he was back to looking out the window, voice low and sombre. "I'm not asking or expecting you to understand me. Simply know that where you see only madness, I see method. I am asking you not to question me. Do you see?" John didn't reply immediately and Sherlock added, conciliatory, "I won't do it in the flat again, out of consideration for your sensibilities. Will that do?"

John stepped closer, stopping just within arms' reach. He let the silence stretch out, hoping for more from him but finally acknowledging that that was all he would get without pushing. "If that's all it was about, just the flat, I'd let it go, I promise you. But...it's not..." He shifted on his feet, glancing around the room and folding and unfolding his arms before asking, "Sherlock...can you..."

"Probably," was the ready response.

John laughed in spite of himself, tension beginning to lift. "Ok then, _will_ you. _Will_ you tell me...will you explain? I _want_ to understand."

Sherlock's shoulders were bunching up again, rising towards his ears, and John lifted a hand to settle on the back of Sherlock's neck. The muscles under his hand jumped, pulse quickening, but almost at once he felt Sherlock start to melt, relaxing into the touch and humming in the back of his throat.

"What do you _need;_ what do the drugs do for you?"

"Mmm." A slight shift, so minute John almost didn't catch it, almost didn't realize Sherlock had started to sway on his feet and caught himself. His voice was detached, observing from afar, and just a bit...awed...as he tilted his head down, granting John better access. "...touch."

It didn't sound like an answer to his question, but John was grasping at straws; stepping closer in case Sherlock did start to lose his balance he said, "Touch. Ok. The cocaine...touches you. Well…here _I_ am, instead. Touching you."

John massaged his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, feeling rather than hearing his answering hum of approval followed by a dark chuckle. A sound like the one the detective made whenever John had said something particularly absurd but he was too charmed to correct him. John realised he'd never touched Sherlock like this before. He found himself oddly fascinated with the texture of his hair. After another moment Sherlock sighed, "Yes. You are."

John slid his other hand into Sherlock's hair and began rubbing small circles against his temples. Playing along. "So...if I could only just massage your brain every once in awhile...you wouldn't need the coke."

Sherlock's laugh rumbled through his whole body, ending in a soft murmur of, "John," that was warm and affectionate, condescension notably absent.

John dropped one hand to Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing him before pulling the loose and pliant detective around to face him, those dark eyes infuriatingly inscrutable even in his drug-addled state. John searched his face, taking note of his pupil size and the pallor of his skin and wondering absently how irritated Sherlock would be to hear John call him _addled._

"I'm not," the unasked-for reply came accompanied by the ghost of a smile. "But I am going to go lie down now."

Eyes locked on John's, Sherlock placed his news-wrapped bundle down on the mantel beside the skull, nodding when he had apparently satisfied himself that John would not touch it. Then without a look back he crossed the floor, disappearing around the door of his own bedroom, leaving it open behind him. There was the groan of mattress springs and a rustle of bedclothes, and then silence.

~~~

 _If he were sober, this feeling would terrify him. As it is, it's the bright point that shine behind the curtain of boredom and sustains him through these moods. One word, one thought, and nothing else that needs his attention. Elsewhere in his mind there are synapses firing, sparking, thoughts thinking themselves, auto-saved to his hard drive to be useful later. For now, just this. His best approximation of a one-track mind. Total immersion. Call it what you will. This is what the drug does for him. Human have needs, after all. But the drug does not; the drug has only an_ obligation _to react with his body chemistry in a certain way. A way no human would ever be obligated to act and react with him._

 _Yes. Touch._

 _This is a better high than any he's ever experienced before. But there's a variable factor involved now; John._

 _John is not a constant._

 _This could ruin everything._

~~~

"John."

John opened his eyes. Through the gloom, the pale face and neck of his friend seemed to hover above the bed. John bit back a groan as he tried to straighten in Sherlock's desk chair. Sherlock did nothing to hide his grin.

"You'll strain your neck abominably if you go on sleeping upright like that. Go to bed."

John rubbed his neck and blinked at Sherlock, trying to kick his brain awake. He'd left the stuff on the edge of the mantel after fighting with himself over whether or not to just chuck it. He'd decided at last to leave it and they'd rehash it in the morning, when everyone was sober.

He’d stood outside Sherlock’s bedroom for a long while after that, listening to him breathe, relief sapping the last of his energy as his trained ears detected Sherlock’s gentle transition into sleep. But still, the thought of Sherlock getting up in the night and doing it again, or getting sick in his sleep, all alone in his room...

John had seen a friend nearly choke on her own vomit once after a bad night, not even waking up as her body rebelled, and it had made enough of an impression to drive him forward, ten years later, into Sherlock’s room and down into his desk chair to keep watch over him as he slept.

“Go on,” Sherlock repeated, lying back down and turning to face the wall.

Three steps across the room to Sherlock’s bed, and the consulting detective lay still as a corpse as the doctor lowered himself down to lie beside him. The bed embraced him and sleep tucked him in without another thought.

John woke up only once more before dawn. Sherlock was facing him, taking up almost no space on the narrow bed. His dark head was tucked beneath John's chin, legs drawn up just slightly, the fingertips of one hand pressed feather-light against John's chest.

~~~

Morning came, though it was hard to tell; heavy curtains kept Sherlock's bedroom in a constant state of twilight. _Bloody depressing._ John yawned as his feet found the floor, rubbing his bleary eyes and aching neck. He was alone. The desk chair tucked back in place, Sherlock's dressing gown flung over the back of it; everything just as it always was whenever John ventured to poke his head in here.

Before he left, he pulled back the curtains, his fingers leaving tracks as they rubbed the velvet against the grain, unleashing a cloud of dust to go dancing through the daylight that rushed in to flood the sun-starved room.

The flat was silent, a half-full mug of tea gone cold on the table the only sign that Sherlock hadn't simply bolted on waking to find John in bed with him. Yes, that. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and tried to feel odd about that. It didn't work. When the sparks cleared from his vision he saw that the mantelpiece was empty but for the skull looking on with that damned _Who, me?_ expression John always thought made it look like it was up to something.

With a sigh he sat and stretched out his leg under the table, going still as he saw that the _Times_ folded beside the teacup was yesterday's, no longer guilty of Sherlock's possession, the wrinkles carefully smoothed out. He was frowning at it, his deduction skills on standby this morning, when his mobile went off.

 _Scotland Yard. Come at once.  
SH_

And then, not even a minute later,

 _Sorry about the tea; got thirsty. Probably cold by the time you got up anyhow.  
At once. Crime scene. Very fresh.  
SH_

He bent and sniffed at the tea. Gunpowder green.

It was foul cold so he didn't attempt to drink it, but he stood there for a few moments, thumb tracing slowly around the lip of the mug, eyes blurring the words on the wrinkled newsprint and trying to read past them to Sherlock's real message. Finally he shook his head, shrugged into his jacket and tucked his phone into his pocket as he walked down the stairs. In the mirror by the door he caught sight of his rumpled hair and absent smile.

"Scotland Yard." He shut the cab door firmly behind him.


	2. The Personal Blog of Dr John H. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later, John sits down to update his neglected blog, attempting to answer the question, "What's it like to live with the World's Only Consulting Detective?"

  
  
**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**   
  


**  
14 December   
**

**Dear Readers,**

 **To answer your question: Yes, Sherlock was involved in the Annabelle Sykes case. And that's all I'm allowed to say for the moment. Maybe I'll get clearance to tell you about it some day.**

 **For now, to address another FAQ-- "What's it like to live with the world's only consulting detective?" I've just got my clearance from him; he told me to write whatever I like about him, "Just _do_  try to stick to the facts, this time." He seems to think I can't write anything without making it sound like some penny dreadful romance.**

 **So, here goes. A typical day in the life of Sherlock and John. (That does sound a bit like a bad novel, doesn't it?) Two weeks ago, on the morning that our involvement with the Annabelle Sykes case began...**

 **I came down from my room around half seven. Sherlock was already up, reading in his chair by the fireplace. He didn't seem to notice that I'd come down and I didn't bother to disturb him even for a "Good Morning" as it's a bad job to try and get anything out of him that he doesn't first offer himself. I made myself some breakfast and sat down to my computer, trying to get a few things sorted and pretty much ignoring Sherlock, who was silent in his chair behind me.**

 **About a half hour later the sound of his voice made me nearly jump out of my skin when he said, as though we'd been speaking aloud this whole time, "You know you need only ask."**

 **When I just stared at him like an idiot he closed his book, frowned, and added, "I'm somewhat offended that after everything you would doubt that I'd write anything other than a sparkling letter of recommendation for you. Although I do wish you'd stop fussing about money."**

 **You think I'd be used to this by now. I'm not. And I'm here to tell you that there is nothing more unsettling than having someone join in out loud to the silent conversation you were conducting in your head. "All right," I said, "Let's have it."**

 **Sherlock favoured me with that grin of his that makes him look like the cat in the canary cage and I realized what was on--Sherlock was in one of his blinding moods. Yes--this man, my flatmate, has reduced me to making up new names for moods because none of the old standards quite suit him. And I'm sure he won't be surprised to hear it. I really don't think Sherlock would consider it to be out of humanity's way to bend the rules to accommodate him. That, or use him as a new standard. I'm making light of it now, but these blinding moods of his can be dangerous. He can be giddy, even gleeful; delighted by the mechanics of the world. It's a wonder to watch but you have to know what might come next... At times like this he can be almost childlike. Breakable. But for the moment, all was well.**

 **"What I do isn't magic, but like the magician who reveals his tricks, it does get annoying to hear how 'absurdly simple' it all is once the process has been explained."**

 **"Sherlock," I said, "I've known you for almost a year and never once in that time have I heard you say anything that the average human would call 'absurdly simple.'"**

 **He smiled again and folded his hands as though about to deliver a lesson. "Well, then. First I must admit that I was not relying only on the observation of your behaviour this morning. Last night as I was coming in I stopped at Mrs. Hudson's door to write her a cheque for the rent. She told me that you'd already paid your half, despite the fact that I thought we'd agreed that I would be paying the rent as it was into my bank account that the money from Sebastian and all the other grateful clients has been deposited. Conclusion; you've got money on the brain and you're feeling self-righteous. Usually this attitude in you is inversely proportionate to your disposable income--illogical, but sufficiently consistent to be considered factual.**

 **"So when you switched on your computer I listened closely to your keystrokes. I am familiar with the password you use to access your bank account online. You use it for nothing else and always strike the keys in the same way, a very recognizable rhythm. You've been using it a long time--not entirely wise, John, you should think about changing it. I heard you sigh and saw you rub your forehead, staring at the screen and tapping your fingers deliberately against the desk, clearly working through bills and expenses in your head.**

 **"After a few minutes of that you pulled out a paper I had observed in your jacket pocket several days ago. A pamphlet from a hospital with someone else's writing on it. A hand-written link to a job listing; a position for which you are quite qualified if perhaps lacking the technical experience desired. You spent a moment perusing the listing and went quite still as you read the first requirement for application--a letter of recommendation from a professional colleague.**

 **"Now. Who do you know who could write such a letter for you? There's Sarah, of course, who might feel herself professionally obligated to mention that you fell asleep your first day on the job, got her kidnapped that same night and had a spotty attendance record after that. There's Mike Stamford, who hasn't worked with you since you were both at Bart's, and who you’re currently avoiding because of something to do with his...sister, I believe. Then there's your former commanding officer, but he's in Afganistan at the moment and anyway you hate asking for anything from the army since you were invalided home. Not to mention how you're doing your best to lead or at least appear to be leading a purely civilian life."**

 **Sherlock paused and looked at me, as though daring me to object to anything he'd just said. I didn't. There's something about this, about when he takes you through his process, that leaves you feeling like you don't dare to move or breathe. So I didn't object, even though I know he knows that I hate it when he talks about the army.**

 **"There's |||||||||| (our contact at Scotland Yard) of course, but you'd never ask for anything from him. Anyway I don't know if he'd do it. Not with conviction anyhow. No, he'd never put his name to something that would take you from my side when he calls on my services. He seems to think you've been a good influence on me. And he's not nearly so annoying when I have you to stand between us. So. That leaves me.**

 **"You glanced my way, bit your lip and then looked away, frowning. That was when I knew you were thinking of asking me. I estimated that you would debate with yourself for approximately 20 seconds before deciding to put off the decision until later in the day, after you had the opportunity to better evaluate my mood. I waited until I heard you sigh and begin typing again, and when I glanced over you were engaged with the news site that you always check last thing before clearing away your breakfast dishes."**

 **We looked at each other for a minute, Sherlock clearly expecting a reaction, me trying not to give him what he wanted.**

 **Finally, he asked, "Well?"**

 **"Mm."**

 **"Simple?"**

 **I laughed. "Extraordinarily so."**

 **Sherlock shook his head and resumed reading. I turned back to my computer, turned it off, and picked up my dishes, heading for the kitchen. Over my shoulder I said, "But still extraordinary."**

 **That earned me a small smile, hidden quickly in the turn of a page.**

 **"By the way," Sherlock said when I finished washing up, "your cheque is in the top drawer of your desk. Mrs. Hudson gave it to me to return to you after I paid her in full."**

 **Well that rubbed me more than a bit wrong and I answered him sharply, "I _can_  pay my share you know! I don't care if you've decided to label me 'self-righteous' or whatever. I can pay. That's why I'm here."**

 **Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and looked at me over the tops of them with a rather odd expression, like he was squinting at me through a thick fog. I remember thinking that if I didn't know him better I'd say he looked puzzled. This was a week ago now and in that week I believe I have come to know him better, and I now believe he was puzzled.**

 **"I know how much you detest asking for anything, John. Especially help. Even when what you need is something that I could provide at no expense or inconvenience to myself. As for the letter of recommendation, consider it done. I composed it in my head whilst waiting for you to make up your mind about it. But as for the rest... You won't convince me that money paid for cases we both worked on--"**

 **(I know--discussion of personal finance, a bit vulgar. But you wanted to know what living with Sherlock was like, and here it is. And this is me, trying my best to stick to the facts.)**

 **" _Your_  cases, Sherlock. You take them, you solve them, and the cheques are made out to you."**

 **Sherlock looked amused once more. "Are you suggesting we open a joint business account? Have a company credit card and keep expense reports? I have no interest in such trivia but if you wish--"**

 **"Oh yes, brilliant. That'd make me feel so much better. We could have business cards; 'Sherlock Holmes: Consulting detective. And his loyal secretary, John Watson.' Lovely idea, really."**

 **"Oh, I'm sure we could come up with something catchier than that," Sherlock was starting to say when we were interrupted by his phone. It was the Yard, calling to see if Sherlock was interested in taking a case down near Dover.**

 **And the rest is for the history texts. Or maybe this blog in a few weeks or months. I hope It's been illuminating or at least interesting. Until next time...**

 **\- John**

 _John sits at his computer with his hands clasped in front of him for a long time, staring at the screen, feeling his heart sync up with the blinking of the cursor. Sherlock's puttering around in the kitchen, as much as the detective ever "putters," and the familiar sounds of his clinking glassware and various devices and pieces of equipment chip away at John's resolve._

 _There's his life, black against blinding white, for all to see._

 _And he doesn't know why he's not pressing_  Post.  _He thinks about Moriarty. His blood pounds in his wrists as his hands go numb and still and he blows out a slow breath. He thinks about how he got to Sherlock last time. Through him. He thinks about this every time he posts in his blog. Sherlock laughs at him, when he mentions it._  You'd hardly be the one to betray any of my great secrets, John.  _At first John thought Sherlock was mocking him. He's slowly progressed to thinking maybe he was paying him a compliment. He blinks when he realises the flat's gone quiet._

 _There's his life. Their lives. Their_ life _? Bold private truth against unforgiving public scrutiny, for all to see._

 **> delete **

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The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson   
  
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14 December   
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**Dear Readers,**

 **To answer your question: Yes, Sherlock was involved in the Annabelle Sykes case. And that's all I'm allowed to say for the moment. Maybe I'll get clearance to tell you about it some day.**

 **For now, to address another FAQ-- "What's it like to live with the world's only consulting detective?" I've just got my clearance from him; he told me to write whatever I like about him, "Just _do_  try to stick to the facts, this time." He seems to think I can't write anything without making it sound like some penny dreadful romance.**

 **Two weeks ago, on the morning we got called to the Annabelle Sykes case in fact, Sherlock was able to narrate the whole course of what I'd been thinking about for the past half hour before I'd spoken a word to him, just by observing what I was looking at, how I sighed or sat in a certain way, and by listening to my keystrokes on the computer. (Apparently he knows the _sound_  of my passwords. You'll be happy to know, Sherlock, that I've changed them since and won't be logging in anywhere near you ever again.)**

 **He's not lying when he says he can identify a person's profession by looking at their hands. And sometimes by the way they tie their shoelaces.**

 **Two mornings ago he deduced what I'd been dreaming about the night before from our breakfast conversation.**

 **If it weren't for me he'd never get the shopping, wouldn't remember to eat, would waste away on the sitting room couch and then the world would be down its only consulting detective.**

 **In other words, I'm never bored. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.**

 **\- John.**

 

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	3. Called to the Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John in tow, leaves London to take on the case of a girl who was found murdered in the woods, her face so mangled as to make her unrecognizable. As Sherlock works the case, John makes observations of his own; there is something about this case that is getting to him. And with the way things have been between them lately, John finds he's no longer content to accept that that's "Just the way Sherlock is."

They caught a taxi in Baker street and were in Lestrade's office within fifteen minutes. As per their usual routine, Sherlock didn't bother to take off his coat and John stepped to the window and looked down on the courtyard below, watching the smokers huddle out of the wind to get their fix as he prepared himself to listen to this latest description of death and human atrocity.

"There's been a murder," Lestrade said. _Obviously,_ John thought, and bit back a smile. Sherlock held out his hand and Lestrade passed him a file.

"What are the relevant facts; why did you call me for this one?"

"Well actually," Lestrade leaned back in his desk chair, stretching out his legs and scratching behind his ear with a pen, "I didn't."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and opened the case file, eyes skimming the top sheet in the report. John turned away from the window and crossed the room to read over his shoulder.

"...approximately 7:00 this morning in a park fifteen miles outside... _Dover?_ That's a bit outside your jurisdiction, Lestrade." Sherlock fixed him with an accusatory stare.

"Inspector Carmichael rang up this morning, asked for you by name." The Detective Inspector shook his head, looking between the two men. "Your fan base is growing."

John ducked his head to hide a grimace. Five years, nearly six, and Lestrade still didn't know how to choose his words to the detective.

"Our fan base," Sherlock repeated slowly. John's head twitched to the side, blindsided by that _our._

Lestrade didn't take the bait, refusing to match Sherlock's chilly tone. "Yeah. Look, the locals down there think this is something you could help them with. Inspector Carmichael is a good man, helped me out of a--"

"Out of what, out of that trouble you got in back in '94, mishandling evidence? Or was he the one who covered for you when you took that 'holiday' to Chichester without your wife?"

A muscle jumped in Lestrade's jaw and he pressed his lips together hard, looking up at the detective who loomed above him. John felt very much as though he were standing between two lions about to spring at each other. He turned to face Sherlock, trying to defuse his sudden rage without any understanding of where it had come from. "Sherlock," he said softly, reaching up to brace a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock brushed him off. "Whatever it is you owe him, Lestrade, I'm not a bargaining chip. I am not the property of this department to be bartered about."

"You’re not a ‘bargaining chip,’ for God’s sake. You're an important _asset_ to this--"

"An asset is by definition _property,_ " Sherlock hissed, and John grabbed for his shoulder again.

"Give us a sec, yeah?" he said over his shoulder to Lestrade, pulling Sherlock out of his office and into an empty conference room a few doors down. He pushed him inside and kicked the door shut. "What the _hell's_ got into you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tossed the file onto the table where the pages slid free and scattered across its surface. Sherlock didn't give it a glance but John caught sight of a picture of a youngish woman, short blonde hair, face smashed in so badly that her features would be unrecognizable to anyone who knew her. John sucked in a sharp breath.

"This is absurd," Sherlock was ranting, pacing in front of the long window.

"What is?" John picked up the file, began straightening the pages, putting them in order, running his eyes over the details of the case.

"This. Lestrade. This… _farce._ " He waved his hand impatiently. "It's battery and murder in a backwater woodlot. Lestrade is quite wrong if he thinks he can shop me out to whichever idiot inspector can't find his way into his office this morning. I'm not in the business of making a name for him or anyone else."

"So this girl doesn't deserve justice because you're in a strop with Lestrade."

"Justice." Sherlock's look was completely blank. "She's _dead,_ John."

"She was _murdered._ Justice doesn't stop at the grave. And it has nothing to do with how _interesting_ or _engaging_ the crime is, either."

"Oh, they'll get to it eventually," Sherlock sank down into a chair, glaring darkly at the empty chalkboard on the wall opposite.

John pursed his lips and forced a long, slow exhale through his nose. Then he shuffled a few pages and read, "'Female victim, approximately twenty to twenty-five years of age. Time of death believed to be between 0630 and 0700 on 3 December.' What'd that be, right before sunrise this morning? 'Body found at 0730.'" John dislodged the stack of photos clipped together and handed them to Sherlock, who took them without looking at him. John continued reading aloud, voice distant as he tried to piece it together. Sherlock was usually the one interpreting the police reports--John didn't need more than a couple of fingers to count the number of times he'd actually held one in his hands. "Says here there was a driving licence in her pocket with a name of Annabelle Sykes, and...something about...oh, and no purse or billfold found, just the licence. That seems a bit odd." He paused and looked up at Sherlock, who was gazing intently at the full-body photograph showing the girl stretched out on her back, one arm flung above her head, face mangled. "Then it says...oh. This must be why they wanted you in. 'Due to recent scandal concerning…when she brought a false charge of assault again one of her doctors...' They're scared of bungling it, Sherlock. Bet you anything they want a solid story before they even think about informing the family. She's Scottish, last address...oh, Christ, a mental health facility outside Inverness. This'll be fun..." He flipped a few more pages before he realized that Sherlock wasn't listening to him.

"She knew her attacker..." Sherlock murmured.

"Hey?" John came to stand behind him, peering at the photo, gripping the back of Sherlock's chair until his knuckles went pale, his iron stomach slow to kick in.

"She only ran a few yards. Her body wasn't moved or carried afterwards. This is the kill site. Must be far out, this wouldn't have been a quiet crime. So she came out into the woods with her attacker, someone she knew, someone she trusted...or someone she thought she could control..."

"So...what happened? Why was she killed, why did her killer feel the need to completely smash her face?"

Sherlock sprang to his feet and snatched the file from John's hand, a gleam in his eye. "Don't know about the first but for the second, because that ID in her pocket's a plant. She's not Annabelle Sykes."

~~~

"After the things you said to Lestrade, I can't believe he vouched a cab for us all the way down. You're murder on the department's expense budget, you do know that, right?"

Beside him on the leather seat, Sherlock smiled down at his phone, thumbs flying across the miniature keyboard. "Next time you feel like voicing the opinion that you're nothing more than my secretary, remember that. He wouldn't have agreed to the cab for my sake." He glanced at John. "It's worth far more to me than your share of the rent to have you with me to interface with all these normal humans on my behalf."

"For God's sake, are you still fixated on that? The 'human' thing?"

Eyes sparkling, voice dry, "Have you ever known me to _fixate_?"

"Sherlock...last week you stared at yourself in the mirror for eight hours straight because you wanted to observe the development of a spot on your chin." They locked eyes for a moment, then both looked away to keep from laughing. Sherlock went back to his phone, and the realisation that he’d just tidily deflected John's question hit him after a minute, and he spent the next chewing on his lip. Finally he ventured, "You seem to be feeling better."

"Than what?

"Than... You. Were. The other night." Sherlock didn’t even look at him. _Well all right, if he's going to make me say it…_ "When we ended up cuddling in your bed. That's not something I do just any night, you know," he added, tone light, not looking at Sherlock.

"Oh? That's a shame. I had rather hoped we could let a single room in Dover, assuming the case isn't wrapped up early enough to come home this evening. Save the Yard and the good taxpayers some money."

John, who had been counting on him protesting the word _cuddle,_ gaped at him. Sherlock spared him a glance and smirked. "You really are a first-rate sleeping partner, doctor. Surely I'm not the first to remark on the fact."

John finally laughed and leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "I really don't understand you, Sherlock."

"Obviously." Sherlock put away his phone. "And despite the fact that I do understand you, you frequently surprise me."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

"So this morning you were reading my mind and this afternoon I'm surprising you."

Exasperated, "The mind is not a page to be read, John. It's the body. Your _body_ that speaks to me."

"Well," John shifted in his seat, looking out the window. "Better my body than a skull I suppose. Speaking to you, I mean. Looks less like schizophrenia that way."

"Alas, poor Watson..."

Frowning, "Shakespearian jests at the drop of a hat but David Cameron can faff off for all you care?"

Eyes wide, breathily earnest, Sherlock insisted, "But John...it's the _classics._ "

John groaned and rolled his eyes. In the window he caught the reflection of Sherlock's quick flash of a smile.

John let the detective go back to his reading without complaint. He wanted to know what Sherlock was thinking about the case, wanted to hear his theories. But he knew the answer he would get to any such query--that it was heresy akin to guesswork to formulate theories without sufficient data.

An hour or so later as the scenery started to change, John broke the long silence. "So what did I do to surprise you, just then?"

Not looking up, "You mentioned that you spent the night in my bed. I'd naturally assumed that it would be 'one of those things' that mates don't discuss."

John frowned. "But...nothing happened."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted into his fringe and he glanced up, then back down at the file in his lap.

"Did it?" John felt his throat go tight. "Oh God, Sherlock, I didn't...in my sleep...?"

"No, no, you were a perfect gentleman, of course. Didn't crowd me, didn't even snore." He looked up, his voice a bit off to John's ears. "Did you learn that in the army?"

Eyebrows drawing together, John asked, "Learn what?"

"How to sleep without putting anyone out."

Pulling himself up, John said stiffly, "I don't know what you're getting at, but--"

Sherlock's eyes went dark as he said with a note of genuine surprise, "I'm not _getting_ at anything--"

"Right. Then let's drop it, eh?"

Beyond a blink, Sherlock did not respond. The final half hour of their drive was spent in silence that rang in John's ears as he held himself very still, trying not to jump every time Sherlock turned a page too-loudly.

 

~~~

 

They arrived in the city centre shortly before 1:00. They were greeted by Inspector Carmichael and his crew who offered Sherlock his choice; would he prefer to first visit the scene of the crime or the exam room to see the body? Lestrade must have briefed them--Clear and simple questions and don't speak unless spoken to. Glancing around at the ring of eager faces all oriented to Sherlock, John wondered how long that would last.

"The body first, wouldn't you say, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock adjusted the scarf around his neck, speaking to John as though they were alone. Pulling deliberately on each finger of his leather gloves to remove them, he added in an undertone not-quite-under enough to keep his words from the ears of their captive audience, "And try to find out for me _why_ they called us here."

John pursed his lips and looked at his shoes before smiling tightly at their escort and nodding. He'd decided as they arrived that he wasn't going to run interference for Sherlock this time, no matter how much of a prat he acted. Digging his hands into his jacket pockets he wondered if Sherlock had already deduced that, and wondered how long the detective had estimated that his resolve would hold.

The crime lab was nothing like New Scotland Yard's, and the exam room nothing like Bart's. The morgue was in the basement, at the bottom of a flight of stairs encased in pitted concrete that echoed and amplified every sound until it felt like they were descending amongst an army shod in steel-soled boots. John didn't miss Sherlock's slight sniff of distaste as they were lead down a hallway that smelled dully of antiseptic and mold. It reminded him of Mrs. Hudson's basement flat. Above a door on their right a clock ticked so loudly that in the quiet after the stairs John could hear the second hand grating against its gears.

Just outside the examination room Inspector Carmichael stopped them. "I'll go in with Mr. Holmes. The rest of you can...wait..." He trailed off as he turned to find himself on the receiving end of Sherlock's most withering glare.

John, more on edge with every tick of the overloud clock, stepped wordlessly around the inspector and accompanied Sherlock into the room, leaving the others gaping outside. After a moment Carmichael and a youngish lab tech followed them in. Sherlock was already deep in observation mode and ignored them. The tech started to speak as Sherlock lifted the left shoe off the table holding the victim's effects, but John quickly shook his head and the young man fell silent.

The walls were stained and damp, eggshell-white if the egg had been left in the sun for too long. The engine on the fan circulating cool air into the room was thunderously loud and sputtered every few rotations. John tried not to breath through his nose and wondered what this place was like in the summer; if the egg-in-the-sun metaphor would extend beyond the walls to the bodies stored here.

The poor girl was stretched out on her back on a table that looked uncomfortable even for one as dead as she. John bowed his head for a moment. It was perhaps his greatest weakness as a doctor--particularly an army doctor--that he could not see a dead body as senseless. Senseless of the pain and indignity of being laid out on display like this. She was covered with a thin cotton sheet, her clothes folded neatly on the table at her side. Sherlock had set down the left shoe and was examining the right, comparing it to one of the photos he held in his hand. Suddenly he knelt down, placing the shoe--a new-looking trainer meant for running--next to his own right foot and tying the lace into a bow. He compared the effect with the photo, untied it, and tried again twice more. Satisfied, he picked up the plastic tray containing all her jewellery. A heavy, antique-looking ring was lifted to the light, rotated and examined. There was also what looked to be a cheap locket, tarnished and brassy, that didn’t go with its silver chain. Then a bracelet, gold like the ring but modern; simple but expensive, if John was any judge of jewellery. After another look through his stack of photos, Sherlock moved to the girl's side.

He pulled the sheet off her without ceremony and draped it over the table. John sucked in a breath, catching himself and meeting Sherlock's eyes when he looked up. John shook his head minutely and Sherlock looked down at the mangled face. "Tan," he murmured, brushing a clump of bloody hair back from the broken forehead. "Tan in south Kent in December."

"Didja look at the driving licence photo? Tanorexic, no doubt." Carmichael cocked his head at Sherlock, holding his pen poised above his notebook with a sceptical air. The Scenes of Crime Officer--Matthews, according to his laminate--darted his eyes between the Inspector and the consulting detective, looking embarrassed.

Sherlock made no sign that he'd heard. He traced his fingers across the girl's upper arms. From his distance John couldn't make out what he was looking at so he took a step closer, but pulled up short when Carmichael followed him. He wasn't about to tell off an Inspector any more than he would encourage him to encroach on Sherlock's space. Carmichael stayed at his side and both watched Sherlock from the far side of the table. Sherlock lifted her left arm, rotating it slowly, feeling for rigor and perimortem injuries. The examination continued to her hand and down each finger. He turned away momentarily--after resettling her arm at her side with surprising tenderness--to pluck the gold ring from among her jewellery. He slid it onto her middle finger, nodded, and replaced it in the tray. He probed down her side and hip, examining bruising, and then leaned in so close that his nose was mere inches from her skin as he considered a spot high on her thigh, running his fingers along it.

Beside John, the inspector shifted uncomfortably, cheeks beginning to flush as he watched Sherlock. Not taking his eyes off Sherlock as though he expected him to do something malicious if left alone for an instant, he grumbled to John, "What's'e doin' then?"

Offended on Sherlock's behalf, John's voice was clipped. "Solving your case." He marched away from the inspector, coming to rest at Sherlock's side. Sherlock spared him only a glance, but the crinkling around his eyes showed that he was pleased.

"You've really got a _thing_ for shoes, haven't you," John remarked several minutes later after Sherlock, done with the body for the moment, had returned to the trainers and let slip a murmured exclamation of pleasure. He looked up, startled, and John quirked his eyebrows. _Joking._

A smile skimmed across Sherlock's features and he beckoned John to join him, his posture relaxing, face open and inviting. Sated on data. "You've never followed any of the links on my website, have you. I suspected as much." He set the trainer down and pulled off his gloves, dropping them into the biohazard bin. Retrieving his phone from his inside pocket he keyed through it for a moment. "I wrote the comprehensive guide to the identifying features of foot- and shoe-prints and the useful data that can be obtained from them. I'll let you read it when we get home. No, better--I'll get you a log-in to JSTOR for Christmas." His flash of a grin was gone by the time he looked back up at John, the manic energy behind his eyes starting to spill over, a palpable force in the air between them. John found himself standing straighter as Sherlock spoke, all rapid-fire words and expansive gesticulation. "Our feet, which usually means our shoes, go everywhere with us. They touch everything, every place that we visit. And those places touch us. Our shoes. Everything leaves a mark, if you know how to look for it. Matthews." The SOCO jerked audibly to attention and Sherlock smirked, not looking around at him. "Can I trust you to perform a very simple task for me? Take that shoe to whatever passes for your laboratory and run analysis on the fresh mud ground into the left-hand lace. Pollen analysis, microscop--"

"I did that already," Matthews said in a rush, voice catching in his throat. He coughed as Sherlock spun to face him. "I took a sample."

"And?"

"Preliminary results show...um...local mud, but also traces of non-native...um..." The poor kid licked his lips and looked at John, speaking to him instead of to the detective in front of him. and John nodded. _Just get on with it._ Matthews cleared his throat and said shakily, "Scots pine. Scottish crossbill droppings."

"Ahhh..." Sherlock turned away with a satisfied sigh.

Released from whatever spell Sherlock's laser focus had on him, Matthews swayed just a bit but watched Sherlock with something tingeing toward awe. John pursed his lips as the kid added, braver now, "But on the bottom of the vic's shoes, it was all-local. Nothing but good Kentish mud there. I'd say she never wore those shoes outside of five miles from where we found her."

Carmichael was frowning between the three of them, not following. Holding up his case file in defence. "But our girl, she's from up north. Annabelle Sykes. Says it right here, 'Sykes was being treated for Antisocial Personality Disorder at a facility just down the A82 from Inverness. Part of an off-site program, living in a girl's dormitory in the city and going in for day treatment. Earlier this year she accused one of the caregivers of raping her, the charges were dismissed due to lack of evidence and her documented history as pathological liar.' She was there on a voluntary basis and last week checked herself out, moved out of the dorm, and no one's seen her since. Are you saying she came to Dover, bought new shoes, put in her old laces, and ran out to the park to get murdered?"

"Look at this, John," Sherlock hadn't waited for the inspector to finish, was already bending over the body once more. "Here. And here." His gloveless fingers traced lines a fraction of a inch above the mangled skin from the corners of her eyes back to her ears. "Tan lines from a pair of glasses. Worn regularly, every day. But here," he snatched up the driving licence encased in its evidence bag, showing John the back of it. "Do you know the restrictions code for corrective lenses?"

"Oh-one, yeah, but..."

"But…?"

John squinted at the small bit of plastic. "But…there's no code. She didn't need glasses to drive." He looked up at Sherlock. "Could be from sunglasses. Even in the winter, with enough exposure--"

Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand, drawing his attention once more to what used to be a face. "Here. Look. Hard to see. On the bridge of her nose, a small imprint on either side. Smaller than the nose-pieces on almost any brand of sunglasses and obviously acquired over time. She wore these glasses habitually. No way to get those marks from sunglasses, especially not before sunup." Sherlock took the blown-up printout of the photo off Annabelle’s licence, and one printed off her Facebook profile. "And here," he said, "Look at her. Really look."

"Not wearing glasses."

"Obviously. But beyond that." He stared at John, on the edge of exasperation, and John kicked his brain into gear. "Tan. Like he said," John acknowledged the inspector with a nod. "Fake tan." He looked hard at the photo that showed Annabelle Sykes inside a pub, grinning at the camera, looking a little manic, wearing a strapless shirt that showed no hint of a tan line. "Is that what you were looking at on her? A t-shirt tan?" John bent closer to the girl, examining her upper arm where a faint tan line showed against her skin.

"Precisely. Around her neck, too, as well as mid-thigh and ankle. Those are fainter, though, left over from the summer. The tan line from the earpieces of her glasses, though, much more pronounced. Active and outdoorsy, even in the winter."

John took a step back and surveyed the room, eyes roaming from the body that had slowly leeched its humanity and become just that--a _body,_ nothing more--to the table holding the departed spirit's worldly effects, to the faces of his friend and the two strangers. He took a deep breath, trying to hold everything together in his mind, trying to see the whole picture as Sherlock was already seeing it.

"So," he said, rubbing at a spot behind his ear. "What's the thing with the shoes?"

Sherlock grinned. "You remember back in Scotland Yard I said she saw it coming, but not until the last moment; that she ran but only for a few strides. That she knew her attacker, and had gone out to that secluded spot willingly."

John nodded. Sherlock walked backwards to the door, speaking only to John though Carmichael and Matthews followed close behind, hanging on his words.

"This girl went out to the woods with Annabelle Sykes. They were friends, probably, or at least she felt no threat from Annabelle. The attack came suddenly. Not sure yet if it was premeditated. She was hit with a large rock, that much is obvious. Maybe Annabelle bent to pick it up, the victim caught wise, and started running. Annabelle chased her, and stepped on her shoelace. That’s what tripped her and got the mud from Annabelle’s Caledonian forest-worn shoes ground into the victim’s shoelace. I saw it when I looked at the pictures back in London--this shoelace pulled out, even before the forensic team had moved her or removed it. And dirt on the laces that are otherwise quite clean. I hadn’t hoped to find such a clear print from the shoe. Very suggestive. I would probably recognise it if I saw it. When she was dead, Annabelle slipped her own ID into the girl's pocket, presumably taking hers in exchange. Now."

He kicked open the door behind him and spun to slip through it. The ticking of the second hand seemed to have sped up to match Sherlock's excited pace. By the time John and the others joined him in the corridor he was already halfway to the stairs and calling back over his shoulder, "Time to see the scene of the crime, I think!"

Carmichael shouted after him, "But who’s the dead girl?"

Sherlock's voice, strangely amplified in the stairwell, filled the hallway around them. "That’s what we find out next!"


	4. Cold & Brilliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Sherlock whirls like a dervish from the crime scene to the victim's home, solving the case and perhaps impressing their tagalong SOCO a bit too much for John's liking...

It was a lovely day. Cold, but quite as brilliant as Sherlock’s mood.

The park was a ten-minute drive outside town. Sherlock accepted Matthews being pressed on them for a guide without acrimony, perhaps because Matthews came in place of Carmichael, who was needed back at the station. John was so used to Sherlock’s habit of silence whilst riding in cars that he barely noticed the quiet until it was broken; as soon as they were out and traipsing across the car park Sherlock was breathing in the country air with a look of elation drawn into the angles of his face and commenting rapturously on the excellent array of native species represented around them, pulling John by the elbow to look with him at the spread of lichen over the rotting trunk of a felled tree.

The park was a rambling wilderness of trees and hills and open fields that had once belonged to the great house when the family still lived there. For going on fifty years though it’d been a public recreation ground, criss-crossed with walking paths and dotted with picnic tables and scenic overlooks. Matthews told them all this and John tried to listen politely but before long he was fighting against a scowl as he began to observe a marked tendency in the young man to walk too close to Sherlock and let his gaze linger too long on his face or lips or, when they turned to go single-file down a narrower path between several large trees, his…lower region. When they emerged at last into the open, Sherlock turned and, ignoring Matthews, pulled John to his side once more, holding on to his arm as he interrupted Matthew’s tale of what they’d found when they came out here this morning on the report of the hikers who’d found the girl.

“When we return to Baker St, what would you think about acquiring a few house plants, John? Spending time in the country reminds me of how refreshing greenery can be. Good for the lungs, as well, clears the air. Good for brain-work.”

“You?” John snorted, looking at Sherlock and not trying to hide his surprise. “You want a pet house plant? _You_ want something you’d have to look after and care for?”

“Well naturally I’d ask Mrs Hudson to look in on it for us, water it when appropriate, etcetera…” He trailed off and extracted his arm from John’s, slowing down and lifting his hand for them to stop. “This is the place, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, right it is, how’d you know…?” Matthews was at their side once more, and John pursed his lips.

“Don’t. Move.” Sherlock said without looking at either of them, and began to step slowly forward.

They were on a small side-path, not frequently travelled, John would guess, and it was off of this that Sherlock walked, eyes tracking through the leaves and mud and remnants of snow, slipping through the trees into what looked to be a small clearing a few yards off. John stuck his cold hands in his pockets and looked after him, waiting.

They didn’t have to wait long. Not even a minute later Sherlock’s incensed shout snapped the still and chilly silence and brought them both to his side. He was pacing around the clearing, one hand furiously scrubbing through his curls, glaring at the ground and then, eyes blazing, at Matthews. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ There is nothing here. _Nothing here._ You’ve left nothing for me! What did you do, stage a rugby match here after you carried the girl away? _Incompetence!_ ” He spit the last word out like a filthy curse. Matthews flinched away and John cringed, squinting down at the ground and scratching behind his ear, waiting for Sherlock to run himself out. Looking around the scene, though, John didn’t blame him for his outburst; even _he_ could see the whole place was churned up by dozens of feet, obscuring anything that the consulting detective might have found useful.

“Inelegant. Inept. Inexcuse…able…” His internal thesaurus was silenced in favour of a hum of intrigue as he bent suddenly on the edge of the clearing, brushing leaves and dirt aside and coming up with a little colourful rectangle. He wiped the scrap of paperboard and bit down on a jubilant grin. Crossing to where Matthews was trying to melt into the shadows behind him, he held it up in front of his eyes and demanded, “Where is this place?”

Matthews peered at it, confused, then his eyes widened. “Corner Brew Coffee Room? It’s just in town, I can take you there…”

“Excellent. John?” He held the card out to John between index and middle finger. As soon as John took it, Sherlock set off back down the path at a punishing pace.

Matthews scrambled after him and John followed, still staring at the coffee punch card in his hand. _Buy 9 cups, get the 10th free!_ He counted eight punches along the bottom of it, swore softly, and hurried after Sherlock, tucking the card into his breast pocket.

~

In the quaint little shop on the corner, Sherlock stepped right up to the counter, flashing a charming smile and Lestrade’s warrant card.

“You said you were going to stop doing that,” John murmured as he tucked the badge back into his jacket pocket. Sherlock ignored him.

“Hello dear,” he said to the woman with pink hair who stood poised at the till to take his order. “I’m looking for any information you can give me about this girl. Do you recognize her?” He held up the enlarged printout of her license photo.

“She looks familiar…yeah. Hey, Becky!” She waved over a second, younger girl, looking curiously between John and Sherlock. Matthews, thankfully, had opted to wait outside after Sherlock glared at him. “Becky, these are the police…they’re wondering about that blonde girl who comes in with your blonde friend.”

Becky rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “You’re so helpfully specific, Kate. Here,” she said to Sherlock, wiping her hands on her apron before reaching for the picture. “Let’s have a look. Oh.” She looked at the picture and then at Kate, who backed away and found something to do on the other end of the counter. She handed it back to Sherlock. “Yeah. That’s Anna. Came in here a few times with Heather.”

“Ahh…” Sherlock sighed, eyes falling half-closed. John knew that look. Bliss. “Heather. Tell me about Heather.”

The girl shied back, running a hand over her mouth and glancing toward the door. “Why?”

“Kate said you were friends.”

“Well. You know. Not really. Just. Um. You know…I been here about six years and she comes in a lot. Get to know your best customers, way it goes, innit?”

“Ah. So you don’t know her outside the shop? Last name? Anything.”

“No…not her last name, sorry. She’s one of those…I mean…”

“It’s all right,” John said when she faltered, giving her a reassuring nod and small smile. “We’re just trying to get some basic facts about her. _Any_ thing you can think of would be helpful. Take your time.” Pause. “She’s ‘one of those’…?”

She licked her lips and brushed her hair out of her eyes, blinking rapidly behind the cover of her hand. “She talks to us, knows our names. Kate’s the owner, and Heather knows we’re kinda struggling to stay open. So she’s one of those who helps us, with the card fees being what they are, uses cash instead of her card. That’s all I meant--she don’t use a card so I don’t even know her last name.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers against his thighs out of view of the rambling girl. Before he could cut in, John asked, “And you said Anna and Heather came in together?”

“Yeah. Just since this week, though. Never seen her before that. Anna, I mean.”

“And they’re friends?”

Kate looked up from wiping down the espresso machine, “Think they’re sisters, aren’t they? Look alike.”

“Yeah, er…” Becky shook her head, cheeks going a bit pink, “Don’t think so. They seem…” She twisted her hands together, fingers entwining.

“Close?” John supplied.

“Yeah. Like…more’n friendly.”

John watched Becky pick distractedly at her chipping nail polish, not looking at either of them, and glanced at Sherlock for direction. Sherlock, however, was staring hard at Becky, eyes bright, on the trail of something.

“Is there a theatre nearby? One that's got a show on at the moment?”

Becky stared at him and John suspected his own face displayed the same expression of confusion at the non-sequitur.

“Um…yeah…there is. It's just round the corner. That’s…where Heather works…how did you…?”

“She’s a seamstress?”

“She’s the costume designer. She’s brilliant, she’s showed me things she’s made. Sometimes she brings her projects in here to work on in the winter, she says it gets too cold to work in the theatre and the light’s no good at her flat.”

“I think she just comes in to see you,” Kate nudged her gently.

“Stop it,” Becky blushed and ducked her head, peeling back the edge of the tape securing the December Specials list to the side of the till.

“I see. Thank you both for your time,” Sherlock said, turning away before he’d finished speaking, making like a whirlwind for the door. John lingered to thank the women more kindly, though he could already hear Sherlock instructing Matthews to lead them on to the theatre.

In the theatre they found only a caretaker cleaning up in the front of the house. Last night had just ended a long run of _Uncle Vanya_ and no one was expected in to work except the cleaning crew. No, he didn’t know any of the backstage folk, though he could tell you that _the bird who played Elena was a knockout, the real talent of the place…_ And probably a whole lot more than that if Sherlock hadn’t walked away from him, leaving him mid-stream. John heard the man continue on mumbling to himself as they strode backstage, Matthews fretting quietly that he didn’t think they were supposed to be in here at all. Sherlock found the office and tucked his lock-picks back into his pocket when he tried the knob and found it unlocked. The work of a moment found a list of contact information for the theatre staff.

 _Heather Waters -- Head Costumer._

~~~

Sherlock entered the third-storey flat like a conductor stepping onto his podium. His left hand floated at his side, fingers testing the air, searching out the hidden strands of music there; an overture about to be born. John and Matthews didn’t need to be told to stand back; they crowded the threshold and didn’t dare toe the invisible line that kept Sherlock’s world separate from theirs.

Five minutes crept by as Sherlock paced the one small room that had been Heather Waters' home, wearing circles into the already dingy carpet, inspecting everything from the photos on the walls to the knickknacks on the windowsill. He ran his fingers along the duvet that draped the bed in the corner and lifted it, peering into the shadows beneath. He perused the clothes hanging and folded in the open closet. Finally he gave a great exhale and tilted his head back. He smiled.

 _Case solved._ John blinked.

Sherlock was on his phone before John could open his mouth. He typed furiously for a minute, then tucked it away and nodded at John. _Let’s go._

“Hang on,” John said, coming into the flat at last. “Are you gonna tell me?”

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock repeated, giving a quick half-smile. “What do you see here?” Sherlock asked, walking in a slow circle, gesturing to the room around them.

“I see a flat, Sherlock. An empty, messy flat belonging to a young woman. And that’s all I’m going to see until you take me through it.”

Matthews looked between them, hanging on every syllable but not interrupting.

“It’s not just messy. It’s been gone through. By someone who knew what they were looking for but not where to find it. Someone who’d been here before, but not for very long and never alone. Look. Drawers in the kitchen half-open, nothing missing. Until you get in here.”

Sherlock pointed to the corner of the living room where sewing accoutrements were stored, stacked in a way that, now Sherlock had pointed it out, looked like had recently been tidy but now was knocked about. “Bins without lids on them, and in this one, the last one she opened because she found what she wanted, a tin that at one point held money, cash, and possibly papers--birth certificate, passport, anything Anna might need to start her new life as Heather.”

Sherlock lifted the quilt again and showed that there were shoe boxes and storage crates stacked tidily beneath the bed with a smallish rectangle of empty space beside. “Just the size for a suitcase, wouldn’t you say? And look here, you can even see the indents left from the wheels, and here from the handle. Been there a long time--Matthews says her shoes have never been outside town and she hasn’t moved that suitcase in a year at least. Heather Waters was precise. She stuck to habits. Frequenting the same coffee shop, learning their names and remembering to always have cash on hand? The tan lines on her arms and legs--clearly she wore _the same_ outfit every time she exercised. A cyclist, just as you said,” he waved to the helmet hung on a nail beside the door. “And her shoes.”

“Those again?” John lifted his eyebrows.

Sherlock shook his head with a grin. “It always comes back to what carries us through life, John. Her shoelaces were tied in a very particular way, and not a common one for laces as it’s hardly the best or most practical knot for an active person. But hardly anyone thinks about that--she just tied a knot she’d grown accustomed to using. Not on herself, she had short hair and seemed too practical for hair-ribbons anyway, or dresses with waist-ties, things of that nature. An assumption, yes, but one that played out.” He waved a hand at the closet.

“So, for who or what did she learn that particular way of tying a bow? Possibly sisters or friends, but the career markers on her hands told a different story.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he stopped his pacing once more, facing John directly. “You see John, the conclusion of this case has been aided by not one but _two_ of my many areas of specialization--hands and feet. I could see that our victim worked with her hands and was down to seamstress or jeweller as top possibilities. When I saw on the map that there was a theatre within walking distance of her coffee shop, I arrived at the obvious conclusion which was confirmed by her scorned admirer in the shop.”

“Her…scorned…hang on, are you saying Heather was…?”

“I’m saying that Becky was very definitely romantically or sexually interested in Heather. Whether or not Heather was involved with Annabelle is unclear as yet--it could very well have simply been Becky’s disappointment reading into the situation.”

“What,” John asked with a slight laugh, “there’s nothing in this room to tell you that Heather was shagging Annabelle, or even if she was into girls or not?”

Sherlock lifted a severe eyebrow, waiting until John’s smile had died off his lips to say, “No need to be so vulgar, doctor. I’ve solved this case without resorting to speculation of that nature.”

“You've solved it?” Matthews exclaimed, his hand arriving over his mouth too late to push the words back in.

Sherlock looked him over and said simply, “I have.”

“Then…” Matthews shifted, eyes darting around the room, “the dead girl really was this…this Heather? Not Annabelle? And Annabelle killed Heather and ran?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock plucked a picture off the wall and held it out for them to see. Two young girls, eight or nine, one pale and freckled with shocking red hair, the other clearly Heather Waters, grinned gap-toothed at the camera, each holding up what was hanging around their necks. “The locket, found on the body. And here,” he pointed to one in an ornate frame that stood out among the crowd of snapshots on the windowsill, this one showing a young couple on their wedding day. “Look closely. The ring she wore. Her mother’s ring. The genetic markers are unmistakeable; these are her parents. Pictures of Heather with her father at all ages, none with her mother past age three or four. Mother died young, hence Heather wearing her wedding ring.

"This is Heather Waters’ flat, and that is Heather Waters lying dead in your morgue. But the mud on her shoelaces was not from her own shoe nor even from around here. The rare and specific combination of elements you found, Mr Matthews, points to a different place altogether. A place Annabelle Sykes is known to have been just a week ago. That, along with the conspicuous placement of a driving licence in her pocket but no purse or wallet was conclusive to my original belief that the victim and the owner of the licence were two different people, and that Annabelle Sykes was, most likely, the murderer.”

“But…I mean…but why?”

Matthews’ voice grated against John’s last nerve, but though he would never have admitted it he was glad that, for once, it was someone other than him asking that question.

“I’m down to two theories, at this present moment. However I’ve also reached the conclusion that gathering further evidence is not necessary to actually apprehend the killer. Therefore, for the purposes of this investigation, _why_ has become irrelevant.”

Sherlock’s phone beeped. He pulled it out and nodded. “The troops are in place. Now we’ve only to wait.” He smiled, and strode from the flat without another word.

“Yeah,” John said when Matthews turned to him, open-mouthed. “He’s always like that.”

“Really? He’s….wow…” The kid went a little cross-eyed as he stared after Sherlock. “He’s…so…”

 _Infuriating. Aggravating. Unbelievable._ John’s mind was ready with a list of adjectives, but the one the kid came up with wasn’t on his list of the moment.

“So _brilliant_.” He turned to John again, lit up like a bloody Christmas tree. “I mean, did you _see_ him? Oh, you’re…I know, you’re probably used to him. But…he was just…” He waved his arms in a poor imitation of Sherlock’s unconscious habit of deductive conducting. “ _Wow._ ”

“Um. Right. Shall we…?” John didn’t wait to finish his sentence, but hurried after Sherlock.


	5. Psycho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Sherlock skips tea to run after the murderer and afterwards he and John talk in bed.

"I'm bloody starving," John grumbled as they mounted the steps to the rambling old house.

"You're always starving," Sherlock said dismissively, not looking up from his phone as he pushed the door open. "We will be taking the rooms after all," he announced without looking around to see if anyone was listening to him. "Under the name Holmes, booked this morning by one of your fine neighbourhood police officers."

The man and woman behind the front desk turned out to be the proprietors of the place. Matthews had told them about it as he drove them over. They'd booked the rooms for them as soon as they heard they were on the way down from London, and it really was the nicest place in town. High tea and full English breakfast every day. Fantastic. John's stomach had started rumbling before they were halfway there.

"Oh yes welcome Mr Homes," the landlady said, bustling out from behind the desk, hands clasped and eyes shining. "We got your luggage in jus' as soon as you arrived in town an' we were so hoping you'd stay the night after all. That nice copper did say he din't know if you'd be stayin' or not but'e said, 'Better make a reservation all the same.' Nice man, 'e was. 'Give'm your best rooms,' 'e said. Well you'll judge yourself I suppose but we dressed you up in our favourite rooms. Right at the top, luvly view an' all. Well you fellows come right this way then, we've 'ad your things taken right up. You lads follow me!"

John dragged his feet up the four (four!) flights of stairs, following in the wake of the landlady's excited chatter and Sherlock's boundless energy. The man practically danced up the stairs.

The rooms, two smallish little nooks under twin gables right at the top of the house and connected by adjoining doors, were really quite lovely. Charming, quaint, cosy…John could just hear his mother cooing over them in his inner ear, drowning out the sound of the landlady fussing at Sherlock in the next room over. John stepped to the window and looked out across the rooftops. He wondered where Heather Waters' family lived.

John had pulled the curtains and stretched out on his back by the time Sherlock leaned in the doorway. "Toilet's down the hall and tea's in half an hour. And anything else we desire in between is to be found at the front desk. Mrs Kemble seems very keen that we enjoy ourselves. Probably another one of our _fans._ "

John groaned and covered his face with his pillow. "I wish you'd just tell me to stop writing the bloody thing if you're going to continue to be horrible about it."

He could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "No, no, not at all. You are, after all, only giving the masses what they crave. How very public-spirited of you."

John sat up, pillow falling away from his face. He frowned at Sherlock, biting his lip.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from fiddling with the button of his cuff.

"Nothing. Just...you sounded like your brother just then."

Sherlock sniffed, his lip curling. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear it."

"If he hasn't already."

Sherlock's face grew dark and his eyes swept once over the room. "Indeed." He turned on his heel, striding briskly down the hall. "Tea at half past."

~

 _Sherlock, where are you? Tea at half past, I heard you say so yourself._

 _I'm starving. Not waiting for you._

 _There are lemon scones, Sherlock._

 _Where are you?_

 _Where the hell have you gone? Mrs Kemble just said she saw you leave an hour ago with someone who sounds like Insp. Carmichael. Has something happened?_

 _For God's sake, Sherlock._

 _This is the last time I follow you out of town on a case._

 _If I find you've gone back up to London without me the next time you see your skull it will be in pieces on the pavement outside 221b._

~

John woke to the squeak of the door and a sudden fall of light across his eyes. The blurry numbers hovering about where he remembered the clock on the nightstand read 1:17. He groaned and closed his eyes. "Sherlock?"

The bed dipped and creaked as Sherlock stepped up onto it, settling himself with his back against the wall down by John's feet. "You were expecting someone else?"

"Hoping. For anyone else."

John kept his eyes stubbornly shut in the darkness and Sherlock allowed the silence to stretch out until John had nearly drifted off again.

"We got her."

"Got…her…Annabelle? The killer?"

"Annabelle the killer. Yes."

"Oh. God. Good God Sherlock, where? Why did you run off like that?"

"I was in the front room when Carmichael pulled up. No time to come up for you. They'd apprehended her on the Dover-Calais ferry, just as I said they would. We had to rush to make it to the Tunnel in time. I'd assumed that she had caught an earlier ferry, that by the time I alerted the authorities they'd be only in time to catch her debarking in France. But it seems she was slower to flee than I expected her to be, and when he found that someone using the name and credit cards of Heather Waters had bought a P&O ticket just an hour earlier, Carmichael decided he'd rather race the ferry to the continent and arrest her before she'd set foot on actual foreign soil." Through the gloom John saw Sherlock wave his hand vaguely. _Or some boring legal rot like that._

"I see." John pushed himself up to lean against the headboard, trying to interpret Sherlock's tone. "You don't seem terribly pleased."

"There was nothing terribly pleasing about this case."

"No…no I suppose there wasn't. But you solved it. You took a killer off the streets."

"Well. Off the waterways. Technically. But yes."

John's smile didn't last longer than a moment. Picking at a stray thread pulling out of the duvet, he asked, "So which of your two theories was it?"

"My what? Oh. Those. Neither. Both." Sherlock's voice was thin and distant, and he moved as though to leave.

"No, Sherlock," John reached out for him, gripping his knee to get him to stay. "It's over. That means this is the part where you explain everything to me and I tell you how 'absurdly simple' it all was."

He'd hoped for a smile, but at least Sherlock stayed.

"She said," Sherlock's voice was lower than usual, his sombre tone slow to register meaning in John's ears, "She said, 'The only people who want me in their lives are people who want to fuck me.'" The drip of the leaky tap down the hall was all John could hear for several heartbeats. "The history of her sexual abuse stretches back two decades. _Decades,_ John. She has no memory of being safe. It's her whole identity. Victimhood."

"Christ." John rubbed his forehead. He could taste lemon scone on the back of his tongue. "So she really was…she wasn't just some psycho after all. That doctor did rape her."

"Yes."

"Christ," John repeated. His thoughts that evening had all been with Heather Waters and her family. Now the tanned and grinning face of Annabelle Sykes loomed before his eyes, berating him. Where was her family? Had she had one? How was it that things like this happened. Kept happening. Would continue to happen. Where was the justice?

"Psycho."

John's head snapped up, peering at Sherlock through the gloom. The voice hadn't sounded like his. "Sorry?"

"Psycho. You used that word. I assume it was for a reason."

"Er…" John blinked several times, bringing his hand up to his mouth, thumbnail scraping at his chapped bottom lip. "I only meant--"

"That now you know she wasn't just 'some psycho,' now you can see her as human; now you can feel sorry for her?"

"Now--hang on. Sherlock, you know that's not what I meant, not at all."

"Do I?"

Sherlock's tone pulled him up full-stop. It was the tone he used on Lestrade when he was particularly annoyed with him. That tone that went along with the face like he'd just bit into a lemon; the one that told the listener that Sherlock Holmes would rather be talking to his skull, or to a rock, or to himself, than to you.

John bit down on the inside of his cheek before saying, his voice very soft, "I hope you do."

"Hm." Sherlock sniffed. "The case stands that she was robbed of the _privilege_ of belief by those who defined her 'difference' as 'dangerous.' She was her only defendant. So in that she fit with my second theory. That perceiving or even imagining Heather to be attracted to her could have been the inciting incident for the murder. Unpremeditated."

John swallowed. "But…?"

"But, in the next moment, she would talk as though she'd planned it all from the day she arrived in town and met Heather. Playing into my first theory, the one _I_ considered more plausible. Troubled girl looking to escape her past, desensitised to violence but unused to practicing it herself. How else to explain her finding and befriending a girl who looked so much like herself? How better to explain the deliberate and thorough destruction of her face as though it were her only identifying feature, not thinking subtly enough to simply replace her own wallet with the dead girl's or to remove her identifying jewellery?"

John didn't know how well Sherlock would take any addition from him at this point, but as the heavy silence stretched out, he couldn't keep the words in. "She was looking for salvation."

A bitter snort. "With a rock in her hand?"

John shook his head. "No. In the face of a girl who looked like her and had everything she'd never had."

"So what is your psychology telling you about why Annabelle _killed_ Heather, doctor? As she landed that first blow and snapped Heather's neck, was she fighting to free herself from the bondage of a horrid life and a bullshit diagnosis? As she struck again and again and smashed in Heather's face, was it simply an attack upon everything she loathed about herself?"

John rubbed his belly slowly, feeling more than a bit ill. He couldn't quite lift his eyes from the duvet but he could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze on him. Those hadn't been rhetorical questions; he was waiting for an answer. "Maybe. Probably more complicated than that. If Heather really did fancy Anna, if she was taking her out to that park hoping for…I dunno…a sunrise snog or something, then…yeah. It'd be a betrayal, in Anna's eyes. Even here, even now, miles and days away from all the bad stuff she'd suffered through growing up, after she's maybe decided to trust someone, she discovers that even this angel she's found only wants one thing of her…" John gave a helpless shrug.

This time Sherlock did push himself up and off the bed before John could reach for him.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

John scrambled out of bed, shoving his bare feet into the slippers by the bed and grabbing his jacket off the hook on the closet door. "It has to be freezing outside," he said as he caught up to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't reply.

There was a mirror on one of the landings and John caught sight of the mismatched pair they made--Sherlock as put-together as ever in his long coat and merino scarf; he with his rumpled jacket over flannel pyjamas and woolly slippers. Their eyes met in the reflection and the corners of Sherlock's mouth pulled down, eyes sparkling. They didn't say a word as they descended to the parlour and unlatched the front door, stepping out into the bitter night.

~

"You're not going to try and off me if we go in here, are you, Sherlock?"

"So long as you don't attempt to snog me."

"Would that be worse?"

"Than what?"

"Trying to kill you."

"It's certainly more likely."

"Than what?"

"Than you trying to kill me."

"Yeah, only cos each is so far outside the realm of probability as to be not worth talking about."

"You did bring it up."

"Killing, yeah. You brought up snogging."

"It was your theory, John. About the two girls."

"Are you just humouring me or do you think I'm right?"

"I prefer not to speculate. The thing is done, my job complete. The why's are irrelevant."

"I'd've thought you'd want to put it on your hard drive. Reference material."

"I believe the moon is nearly full."

"You 'believe'?"

"I'm trying to follow your advice, John. Making more liberal use of 'I-emotion' language, even when plain facts would be more to the point. Aren't you proud of me?"

"'Belief' isn't an 'emotion,' Sherlock."

"I disagree."

"I think you're more annoying than you were before you decided astronomy would be worth your time. Christ, it's bright. You're right. A night or two off from full, I'd say."

"Two."

"Not so proud, no."

"Then why are you grinning?"

"Because we're out in the same woods where a murder took place not even 24 hours ago. Because it's below freezing and I'm wearing slippers. Because my life is absurd."

"Yes. It is."

"And now you're grinning."

"Only a little."


	6. Your Underlying Foundation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this final chapter, the case is concluded and Sherlock and John go back to London. But not before Sherlock pitches a fit (and his teacup - at the wall beside the DI's head). On the train ride on the way home, John finally asks for--and, to his surprise, receives--some answers.

It would have been too much to ask for Sherlock to be in a good mood when he shook John awake in the morning. They’d only just gone to bed three hours previously--that is, John had; he wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Sherlock’s head hadn’t touched his pillow yet--but as soon as they descended the stairs to find Matthews and Carmichael waiting for them by the door, John knew it wasn’t lack of sleep that was twisting his friend’s face into the thundercloud known and feared all round Lestrade’s division.

The whole of the local constabulary had turned out to see them off, and there wasn't a single table or chair in the tiny tea room around the corner from the train station that was occupied by a civilian. _Except me and Sherlock._ Glancing at his friend's face, John considered revising that label--the day Sherlock was _civil_ would be the day Anderson came back to the Yard, declared he’d never much cared for Sally anyway, and friended Sherlock on Facebook. John checked his watch, fidgeting with the buttons on his cuff. _Fifteen minutes._ He just had to get them through fifteen minutes. His hand was perfectly steady as he reached for his scone.

"It was a pleasure, Mr Holmes," Matthews hovered over Sherlock's shoulder. A Labrador desperate for a belly rub. "I'm--we're--sorry to see you go, I don't mind saying. It was such an honour to work with you. A real treat."

A muscle jumped in Sherlock's jaw and he re-crossed his legs, folding his hands over his knee and looking straight ahead, not acknowledging Matthews' presence, let alone his words.

"Yes, well, it's been lovely," John jumped in without thinking his words through. He blinked and wiped a hand over his mouth. Despite the (perhaps unfair) dislike he'd taken to the runty little SOCO, John still felt the need to salvage the situation as best he could. "You know. Considering. You've all been great. To work with."

"Please." Sherlock's voice could have sanded wood. The shop went quiet and everyone looked at him. He looked at John.

"Politics, Sherlock," John muttered behind a tight smile. "Politeness. We've discussed this."

"It was 'lovely'?" A sharp, sudden flick of Sherlock's wrist and his untouched teacup shot through the air to shatter against the far wall, two inches from Carmichael's head. "It was a ' _treat_ '?" Sherlock didn't move, all his tightly coiled fury held carefully in check against a backbeat of soft, arrhythmic drips. "It was a waste of my time."

"A waste of your--" John leaned in across the table, their knees colliding, trying to absorb the brunt of Sherlock's ire himself. Speaking just to him, "Sherlock, you _solved_ the case!"

Sherlock did not match his tone, did not seem to care if Lestrade heard him all the way in Scotland Yard. "Oh, to what end? The evidence was there, anyone could have solved it. I did nothing." At last he lowered his voice, eyes still blazing, locked with John's. "The killer killed. The bleeder bled. 'Jesus wept.' And it. Solves. Nothing."

"Sherlock, you wanna..." John stood and took Sherlock by the elbow, jerking his head towards the door, leaving no room (he hoped) for protest.

Sherlock shook him off with surprising violence, and John stepped back, fighting to keep his balance and his poker face for their audience. Sherlock rose with stately dignity, fastidious in straightening the lapels of the coat he hadn't deigned to remove on entering the shop. "Right." He looked up and around the crowded room, deep lines etched around his mouth as he lifted his lips, eyes unchanging. "Congratulations, Carmichael, on a lovely crime solved. You all deserve a treat and a pat on the head. Come, John."

Lips pursed, not looking back, John followed him out. _Like a good dog._ Resentment stiffened his limbs and Sherlock outpaced him, rounding the corner to the station. When he was out of sight John felt his hand spasm in his left pocket and he was seized with the violent desire to throw something. Maybe Sherlock. Onto the rails. In front of the train.

When John caught him up Sherlock was standing on the end of the platform, eyes fixed on a point a few metres off the tracks, hands in his pockets as the wind billowed his coat around him, his lean body a harsh black punctuation mark against the washed-out beige of the drab and dreary scene. So alien and alone that John pulled up full stop and felt his heart twist behind his ribs. If they were at home Sherlock would be sitting in his chair, eyes dull, lost in the dead embers of the drafty fireplace. This was a fireplace mood, not a window mood. John dreaded fireplaces moods, as he knew Sherlock himself did. Minutes passed before he pulled out his phone to check the time and saw a missed call and then a text from Lestrade.

 _For God’s sake, what happened?_

John looked up at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved. He sighed and sent back,

 _Nothing that hasn’t happened before, only in front of strangers this time. And now I think I know why you don’t force him to take cases that don’t interest him._

 _Good Christ. Did he shout or did he break things?_

 _Both._

 _Right. I’ll take care of it. Thanks, John._

John stared at his phone before shoving it deep into his pocket. With a frustrated exhale he sat himself down on the bench to wait for the train. He hated how everyone treated Sherlock like a natural disaster to be weathered out and then recovered from. Even him. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Two minutes until the train.

Soft footfalls approached, and a moment later Sherlock perched lightly on the bench beside him. When John looked at him, the detective’s face was haggard. Beyond overtired. John tried to figure out the last time he knew for sure that Sherlock had slept. The sound of a train whistle made them both turn to look.

“I’ve disappointed you again.” Deadpan and certain, speaking to the middle distance. John couldn’t help but shake his head. _No, Sherlock._ He got a small, worn smile in return. “I have. And it shouldn’t matter; we’re both used to it. And after all, as you said, I did solve the case. But what did I really accomplish? I did with science and cleverness what they would eventually have done with dog headed perseverance. No, this simply wasn't a case for me. Will have to be deleted. Adds nothing.” Eyes closed, fingertips placed in the centre of his forehead and dragged down his across his brow ridge, gathering up the worthless information and shaking it off into the ether.

John stood as the train ground to a halt by the platform, shouldering his bag.

“Solved. Not answered or fixed.” Sherlock looked up at John, making no move to rise. “ _Why_ would she do it?”

John offered his hand to Sherlock, who looked at it for a count of three before standing on his own. John blinked and instead handed over the tickets, stepping back and letting Sherlock board first. His friend chose a rear-facing seat towards the front of the carriage, still mercifully empty at this hour, and John slid into the seat opposite him. He wondered if Sherlock had remembered that John preferred to face forward or if he was simply on the fortunate end of a fifty-fifty chance. The train jerked to life and their knees jostled together. Sherlock pulled his feet back, tucking his heels under the seat.

“People get broken, Sherlock. They get broken and do broken things.” It wasn’t the answer Sherlock wanted, but John pressed the point as Sherlock looked out the window with a huff of impatience. “And now…now maybe she’ll get the care she needs. And you saved her next victim--think of it that way. Maybe it would have even been herself.”

Sherlock looked back at him with an expression John couldn’t read. “I wish I shared your faith in the system.”

With a sad smile, John shrugged. “So do I.”

The next time Sherlock looked at him, John asked, “Why did this one get to you like that? Was it the case? Or the people you had to work with?”

Sherlock gave him the ghost of a smile. “I could ask you the same. You took an extraordinarily pronounced dislike to poor Matthews.”

“’ _Poor_ Matthews’?” John choked on nothing.

“Yes. _Poor_ Matthews.” And _damn_ but it was infuriating how he knew when Sherlock was taking the piss but could never point to what, exactly, clued him in or, God forbid, _why_ he was doing it.

“The kid was an idiot. A swotty little nerd who’d be well advised to take his eyes from your arse and get back to his books.”

Sherlock was quite still for long enough that John started to squirm in his seat, sure that he was blushing. _For God’s sake, where did that come from._

“Well, John. That was most illuminating.”

John tried to laugh. “Because it’s news to you that I don’t like the Jims-from-IT of the world drooling all over you whilst trampling all over your crime scenes? That shouldn’t be news.” He pulled himself up short but then added just as quickly, tripping over the starts and ends of his sentences, “And if you call me ‘touchingly loyal’ I’ll just--”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

John blinked, and shut his mouth.

Sherlock frowned. “That is. Ah. Hm. I know that you…”

John took pity on him, waving away his stumbling attempt at a redress. “It’s all right. I know what you mean.”

“Do you?”

John leaned back in his seat, folding his hands behind his head as he considered Sherlock, wishing that his friend could see through his eyes the memory of That Night. Sitting by the hospital bed with Lestrade at his side, waiting and praying for Sherlock to wake up.

Sally Donovan had been pronounced dead on the scene, crushed in the wreckage of the pool not a metre from where Sherlock himself had been dug out, but Lestrade didn’t tell John that for hours afterward, not until Sherlock was stable. The world had gone sideways and strange when the words finally passed the DI’s lips, nearly sliding John out of his moulded plastic chair. And then…when he could speak…the words ripped from his smoke-raw throat had been _apologies,_ while the words in his heart were a thunderous clamour of _Oh dear God thank you for keeping Sherlock alive._ If that was _touchingly loyal,_ John didn’t know any way he’d rather be.

“You didn’t answer my question. Why did this one get to you.”

“This simply wasn’t my kind of case.” Sherlock folded his hands over his knee and looked out the window. “Can’t really blame Lestrade for that, we didn’t know what kind of a case it would be from the bare facts he gave us yesterday morning. Although I suppose if I had researched the name on the licence beforehand, I would have seen her diagnosis. Well.”

John tapped Sherlock’s toe with his. _Focus on me, Sherlock._ “What was it made it ‘not your kind of case’?”

Sherlock looked at him, scrutinising him with down-drawn brows. “The nature of the violence…at the root of Annabelle’s…”

Sherlock’s frown became a scowl as words turned problematic, but John felt a spark light up a dim corner of his brain, illuminating something he’d never thought to notice before. “You don’t really take on cases pertaining to sexual violence. Do you.”

“No.” Sherlock’s hand smoothed out a crease in his trousers.

“But I know you’ve handled other things like…like that time the girl’s fiancée had gone missing and you figured out he was scamming her. Or that rich bloke with the American wife. You do take cases that hinge on sex, or romance, and you do solve them. So…?”

“So _where_ is that invisible line which Sherlock Holmes will not cross.” Sherlock pulled off his gloves and placed them in his lap, arranging the empty fingers one by one. “People are shapes, John. Situations are forces.” He spoke each word with deliberation, and John realised that he was getting the Intro to Sherlock’s Brain: Primary School Edition. He had to fight a wild urge to giggle at the idea of Sherlock sitting in his coat and scarf and delivering a lecture to a bunch of wide-eyed kids in school blazers. “Gather enough data to make out the shape, or at least eliminate the impossibilities, observe all the evidence needed to reverse-engineer the force, and you are left with as many or as few possibilities as the scope and quality of your data allows. Love, attraction, romance, deception, jealousy…all these things that I can observe, that I _have_ observed, are all reasonably consistent at their most basic parts, making allowances for personality and situation. Victims--live victims--are more challenging. Sometimes they survive and adapt and then they become more interesting. Crime, hardship, emotional bereavement. All things being equal and with sufficient data I can observe and conclude without any _personal_ understanding of what is being felt by the players in whatever drama I am involved in. Do you see?”

John supposed he did, but Sherlock barely paused for breath before continuing, criss-crossing the knife edges of his hands to demonstrate his point. “Violence is easy. Violence I can work with. But in that space where violence and sex collide,” he spread his fingers, scattering his closely-contained logic to the winds, “there my equation breaks down and algorithms go rot.”

“So…” John pursed his lips, interpreting after a minute, “you leave it alone because you’re rubbish at it. You really meant it when you said girlfriends and boyfriends and all that weren’t really your area.”

Sherlock peered at John across the narrow space between them, lips quirking. “Your leap from sexual violence to the world of dating is positively Freudian, John. But yes. I leave it, all of it, alone, because, in the vast arena of human experience, that is one dark corner where distant and theoretical study sheds no light.”

“It’s just odd, is all,” John said, looking out the window.

“That I admit to having blind spots?”

“Well, that too, yeah, and it does make for a lovely change, I can tell you. But it’s just that I’d’ve thought you would have conducted a thorough search of that, uh, ‘dark corner’ by now. You know--for science.”

Sherlock tucked his chin and levelled an incisive stare straight through the heart of him. John had no idea what Sherlock was seeing in his face as he struggled to return it, stare for stare, beginning to sweat in the stale air of the carriage. When Sherlock spoke his voice was guarded, hesitant. “You’re mocking me.”

John wrinkled his nose. “How’d’you figure?”

“If the only way to solve a certain mystery was based on knowledge of what human flesh tastes like, would you be able to?”

“What? No, of course not, no.”

“And if afterwards someone came along and said, ‘How ridiculous that you haven’t conducted a proper study of the topic, don’t you care about knowledge and experimentation in the name of solving mysteries,’ what would you say then?”

“I’d say they must be mad, why would I go around sampling human flesh?”

“Not for _science_?” Sherlock drew out the last word to almost three syllables and John gaped at him.

“Ok, maybe _I’m_ mad, but it sounds as though you’ve just compared sex to cannibalism.”

“No. I've just put in your mind two acts associated strongly with many and various taboos in cultures around the world and used your reaction to the former in an attempt to prove a point.”

“What is your point then, that you find sex to be repulsive and morally wrong?”

Sherlock clicked his tongue impatiently and looked out the window. John rubbed at his temple, confusion stewing with exhaustion. The silence extended for a long time, lasting through a stop where four or five people filed onto the train. They started up again and Sherlock spoke without warning, his voice sounding louder now that they had an audience. “Morals don’t come into it. I was simply trying to elicit a visceral reaction in you.”

“All right.” John’s answer was abrupt, his nerves on edge. “I get it. Joke not funny. I’m sorry, please forgive me.”

The pause after he spoke was rife with something John couldn’t put a name to without looking, so he looked. Sherlock was staring at him, entirely nonplussed. “You were making a joke?”

John rolled his eyes and brought his hand to his forehead, his chest welling with an emotion that spilled over onto his face as a grin. “No, I was suggesting you go out and get shagged for science. Tell you what, take along a biro too and make notes on his back while you’re at it.”

Sherlock’s look of horrified disgust morphed seamlessly into a full-throated laugh as his head rolled back against the cracked upholstery of his seat. John watched him for a moment before succumbing himself, hiding his giggles behind his hand, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face, not even to look around and see if anyone was watching. Sherlock was glorious when he laughed.

“So you really never…?” John asked when he’d regained his breath, sagging against the window and looking at Sherlock’s open face, wondering if he’d get a straight answer.

“No,” Sherlock sighed, just short of gasping, wiping his eyes and leaning forward to pick up a glove that had dropped on the floor. “I really never.”

“How does that…” John tried valiantly to find his way around a subject he’d never allowed himself to fully examine, even in the privacy of his own mind. “Just never worked out for you, or what?”

“Oh, I’d say it’s been working out just fine for me, thanks.” He laid his gloves down beside him and pulled his feet up onto the seat, steepling his fingers and gazing at John over the tops of them. “Interesting, though. Your choice of words. You said ‘his.’ The back on which I am to take notes; ‘his’ back.”

“Oh. Well, I…” John coughed, awkward once more, head still light and wobbly from their laughing jag. “Is that…not right?”

Sherlock was squinting at him again, that peculiar expression of peering through fog forming a vertical crease between his brows. “Have you been operating all this time under the assumption that I’m a homosexual?”

“Ah…” It was really _quite_ warm in the train car. He heard a muffled snicker from somewhere behind him and didn’t turn to see if it was aimed at them. Neither did Sherlock. “I guess…I guess a bit, yeah.”

Sherlock harrumphed and slouched down in his seat, feet falling noisily back to the floor.

“Hang on. Are you in a snit because I thought you were gay, or because _you didn’t know_ I thought that?”

“Did you, though? You really, _actively_ thought that?”

“Well…” John frowned. “When you put it like that, well, no. I guess not.” Sherlock’s face and posture relaxed minutely. “You always just kind of seem…I dunno…above it all. Like it’d be a waste of your time for me to even ask. So I didn’t.”

Sherlock’s slow grin and rumbling baritone made him look and sound like a satisfied cat. “Oh, John. You really are invaluable to me as a companion.”

John felt himself go a bit shy but he smiled. “How’s that?”

Sherlock was off, though, following a train of thought too complex to be entrusted to words. John watched his face, and leaned forward to catch the trail end of a sentence, murmured beneath his breath. “…always so fascinating.”

John didn’t try to recall Sherlock to their conversation. He leaned against the arm rest, chin in his hand, and gazed out the window, dividing his attention between the lacklustre scenery and Sherlock’s wan reflection. The train rocked him and he began to give way, tossed about on a weltering sea of conflicting emotions, outdated and updated data vying for dominance in his weary mind. He wasn’t sure if he was drifting off or sinking under, but he could hear voices, clear as bells in his ears. _Not my area… Freak… Psychopath… High-functioning sociopath…_ Sociopath. Incapable of empathy, of genuine emotion. Of real, human connection. _The curtain rises. We were made for each other, Sherlock. Your friend, Doctor Watson, your Sherlock Holmes…is going to kill you tonight. Does that surprise you?_ Sociopath. Lack of impulse control. Lack of conscience. Lack of real, honest, _human_ connection. The look on Sherlock’s face when John had stepped out into the pool. The feeling of Sherlock’s fingertips pressed against his heart in the middle of the night. _No one else thinks of me as human…and wouldn’t it be convenient if they were right. I’ve disappointed you. Again._

 _Freak._

John _will_ not accept that possibility. And on that thought he let the train sway him back to full consciousness. The canned voice echoing throughout the carriage informed them they’d be arriving in Victoria Station in ten minutes’ time. They’d both slouched down in their seats and their legs were pressed together from knee to ankle and heel to toe. Sherlock was awake, but hadn’t pulled away.

“Sorry,” John’s voice was croaky and he coughed. He’d only spoken when he realised suddenly that he’d been eyelocked with Sherlock for nearly five minutes and the detective was beginning to frown. “Were you saying something?”

“I was.” Sherlock stood and stretched his legs, riding the rocking of the train like a sailor. “But you were asleep. I didn’t think you were listening.”

John stood too and picked up his bag with a pained groan, his shoulder screaming at him for sitting slumped against the window for so long. Sherlock reached over and took it from him without ceremony. “I was just musing aloud.”

John had to strain to hear him over the sound of doors opening and people calling to each other. The station was crowded and he fought to keep his place at Sherlock’s side, while the taller man waded through the throng as though they were alone. Sherlock took John's arm as he had the other day in the park.

“I was thinking about how your habits allow me to read you. To follow you along the well-worn paths in your mind. But your habits _don't_ allow me to understand you, beyond the basic ability to predict a train of thought or course of action. For example, my familiarity with social customs through observation, and with you, tells me you hate to ask for anything, particularly money.

"But I don't know _why._ I don't _know_ what your real reasoning is. I could probably tell you what _you'd tell me_ if I asked, the way I could tell you why you didn't go to Harry for help when you were first back from the war. But that's the window-dressing, so to speak. It's the architecture beneath, your underlying foundation, that I want to understand.”

They emerged onto the street and John was surprised to find that it was a brilliant day out. It seemed that he and Sherlock had been travelling for a long time, somewhere that sun and society didn’t matter; didn’t exist. Sherlock hailed a cab and they inched and jerked their way through midday traffic back to Baker St.

~~~

Sherlock sat in his chair, eyes tracking amongst the ash in the fireplace. His violin lay in repose across his lap, and when John leaned around the doorway he plucked at one string and then two.

“You hungry?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock dragged his gaze across the room as though with great effort, blinking slowly when his eyes met John’s.

“Well, can I…you need anything? Want anything?”

"Perhaps..." Sherlock plucked a twangy chord and cocked his head, considering. Running the back of a knuckle across his bottom lip, he hesitated for a long time, glancing at John’s hands where they hung by his sides and then back up to his face. “Perhaps a brain massage?”


End file.
